Early Tee Time on the Tenth Green
It’s a postcard-perfect May morning: mid-70s, zero humidity, sunlight bouncing off the 10th green across the pond beyond my deck. Any sane golfer would already be lacing up spikes. I, however, am nursing joints that snap like bubble wrap and wondering if I can even hoist the clubs into the trunk—never mind swing them.
Welcome to 2023, the year I slid from “late-sixties” to suddenly seventy-ish with all the grace of a wayward tee shot off the cart path.
Aging on Fast-Forward
Sure, 67 candles will crowd the cake next week, and yes, several medical gremlins now live rent-free in my chart. Still, until recently I could chase my grandkids (two and four) without requesting a halftime oxygen mask. I could tackle house projects and only need a breather every other day. I could hoof a mile without auditioning for a Life-Alert commercial.
Then came this year—when one lap around the kitchen qualifies as cardio and recovering from it takes longer than the Masters rain delay.
The Nine-Hole Litmus Test
Yet that 10th green keeps winking. Maybe—just maybe—there’s one cart-assisted nine left in the tank. Worst case: I ride shotgun, keep score, and heckle the ducks. Best case: I finish, survive, and pick up fresh material for the orthopedist.
Because here’s the secret no birthday card prints in gold foil: Fun still counts, even when your swing speed and your age start sharing digits.
Scorecard for the Year
- Strokes gained: Perspective
- Penalty strokes: Surprise naps, chronic creaks
- Mulligans remaining: As many as I can beg
So here’s to 2023—the year the calendar finally caught me at the turn. If I survive the next tee time I’ll celebrate with an ice pack, a smug grin, and maybe another mulligan.
Getting old is inevitable; becoming boring is optional.
Choose Joy—even if you do it from the cart path.
